“Let’s go, son,” shouted Simon as Aaric appeared from his room, fully dressed and ready to leave.

They both hopped into Simon’s 1961 XK-E and set off toward Little Whinging. The pure-bloods would have been spitting blood at the indignity of the patriarch of the ancient and noble House of Hawthorne using a Muggle contraption. But Simon didn’t care—never had. Status meant nothing compared to family.

Father and son reached the park where Aaric was to meet Harry. Aaric had told Harry they’d be meeting in the morning, but the boy was running a little late.

About half an hour passed, and as Aaric and Simon kicked a ball around, Harry finally appeared, walking in small, hesitant steps with the lower part of his face covered by a cloth.

Aaric looked at him strangely.

“What’s with the cloth?” he asked.

“I’ve got a little cold,” Harry replied quickly. “Didn’t want you to catch it.”

Harry was lying.

Earlier, Dudley had seen Aaric leaving after playing with Harry and grown jealous—angry that Harry had made a new, wealthy friend. He ran to tell Uncle Vernon, who saw this as a threat: if people found out a ‘freak’ lived at Number Four Privet Drive, it would ruin their reputation as a perfectly normal family.

So, Vernon had taught Harry the consequences—again.

The next day, Harry had made up several excuses to leave the house. Despite the beatings, he just wanted to play. To feel like a normal boy, even for an hour.

Simon was quietly alarmed at Harry’s appearance. The boy looked malnourished, like he came from poverty. But he said nothing. Aaric’s choice in friends was his own, and if this boy made his son happy, that was enough.

“Hello, Mr. Hawthorne. Nice to meet you,” Harry greeted politely.

Simon simply ruffled the boy’s hair and stepped aside to watch them play.

As Aaric and Harry ran about, the cloth slipped from Harry’s face. Aaric caught a glimpse of a dark scar and stopped in his tracks.

“What happened? Why do you have a scar on your face?”

Simon walked over, eyes narrowing. Harry hastily replaced the cloth.

“I just fell, don’t worry about it,” he said quickly, shivering slightly.

But Simon had already seen enough.

“Don’t you live at Number Ten, Privet Drive?” he asked casually.

Harry instinctively replied, “No sir, I live at Number Four.” Then looked confused.

Simon feigned ignorance. “Ah, I must’ve mistaken you for someone else.”

Aaric noticed the cold glint in his father’s eyes. He knew what it meant—he wouldn’t have to do anything. His father had seen. His father would act.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go far,” Simon said, making up an excuse about forgetting something.

Aaric waved him off. “We won’t,” he promised.

Simon Hawthorne was not a man who liked meddling in others’ affairs. But he was a good man—and a powerful one. The moment he saw the scar on Harry’s face, and the lightning-shaped one on his forehead, he knew exactly who the boy was.

He didn’t care that Harry was the Boy Who Lived.

He cared that Harry was his son’s friend.

And that meant something.

He had used a bit of Legilimency—not enough to hurt, just enough to skim the surface of Harry’s thoughts. It confirmed what he feared. That was enough.

Number Four, Privet Drive

The doorbell rang. Vernon Dursley, holding an ice cream cone, opened the door and blinked at the sight of the tall, well-built man standing there.

“How can I help you?” he asked, a bit thrown off.

Petunia appeared from the kitchen, curious.

“Hello, is this the Dursley residence?” Simon asked calmly.

Vernon wanted to scoff—of course it was, didn’t the man see the plaque beside the door? But he simply nodded.

“Would your son be home, Mr. Dursley?” Simon asked.

The couple stiffened slightly.

“No… Did he do something?” Petunia asked, alarmed.

Simon almost sighed in relief. Good. He didn’t want a child witnessing what was about to happen.

Without warning, Simon drew his wand. In the blink of an eye, the Dursleys were paralyzed, silenced, and seated like puppets on their couch. Simon stepped inside, casting several silent, precise charms—no wasted movements, no noise.

He sat across from them and began.

Looking Vernon in the eye, he used Legilimency at full force. He saw everything. Every act of cruelty. Every moment of fear.

Simon’s face grew colder by the second.

A small flame ignited in his left hand. He waved it before them, and they paled.

“You will not make Harry do chores again. He will have his own room. You will feed him properly. And you will leave him be.”

Vernon tried to speak, furious, but still paralyzed.

“You’re not capable of love,” Simon continued, his tone colder than the flame in his hand. “But you will comply.”

With a flick of his wand, the Dursleys silently screamed in pain, as if engulfed by fire. The illusion lasted only seconds, but it was enough. They were drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, trembling.

Simon released their voices.

“You won’t get away with this,” Vernon growled, enraged and humiliated.

Simon raised a brow.

“I already have. I’m not just a wizard—I’m a powerful and influential wizard. If I so much as hear a whisper that you’ve deviated from what I told you, I’ll crush you like ants. And should the wizarding world learn what you’ve done to the Boy Who Lived for the past eight years?”

He didn’t need to finish. The Dursleys turned ghostly pale.

Their silence was answer enough.

Simon stood, adjusting his coat.

“Good.”

Then he left without another word.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep